


misc. trollhunters prompts

by tascheter



Series: crow's short fics [1]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/F, F/M, Gen, many one-off aus, mostly unconnected; mostly stricklake; but tomorrow...who knows?, specific prompts/details listed by chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascheter/pseuds/tascheter
Summary: sometimes i take prompts on tumblr. these are the ones i've done for trollhunters.
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander, Zelda Nomura/Lenora Janeth
Series: crow's short fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123022
Comments: 30
Kudos: 61





	1. rebecoming #1

**Author's Note:**

> i've had a lot of fun doing these prompts, and i wanted to archive them somewhere that wasn't tumblr! hence: ao3.
> 
> each prompt will be posted separately, in the order they were filled. i'll include the original prompt + more detailed content notes (including nsfw, if present) at the beginning of each "chapter." the first nine fills were originally posted on tumblr, so i've included links to their original fills; after that, though, prompts will be posted directly here, so if you'd like consistent updates, don't forget to subscribe!
> 
> these prompts are posted as-is, without any additional editing or polish. however...there are quite a lot of these that i'd like (or am definitely going) to revisit and expand into proper fics, so i reserve the right to repeat myself. >:)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [rebecoming au] in which jim pleads his case to an unlikely ally.
> 
> brief mention of (canon) character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from @shannonsketches, on tumblr: "Here's something I think about too much: The Unbecoming AU, Continued. Just as Jim's running back to fight Gunmar, Stricklander swoops in and carries Jim off, essentially bringing us into a semi-apocalyptic AU in which Jim & Strickler have to collect the squad (including getting Barbara out of the hospital, convincing Nomura to help, and trying to unstone Draal and fix the amulet) without the advantage of time, all while Gunmar and Bular are running Arcadia with their goons. Thoughts? Drabbles?" 
> 
> [[some direct thoughts](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/189158916657/heres-something-i-think-about-too-much-the) \+ [original fill](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/189158927957/comin-out-of-the-gate-strong-with-this-absolutely)]

"You've _got_ to be shitting me." 

"Listen, Nomura." Jim's pretty sure pleading wouldn't have worked even in his original timeline, but without the amulet he's not sure what else he can do. "We wouldn't have tracked you down if we didn't need your help." 

Of course, she isn't listening to him. Her attention is still centered on Strickler, standing beside Jim and looking about as uncomfortable as he feels.

"I know it sounds unbelievable," he says. The uncertainty sounds so—so _odd_ , coming from him. Jim's pretty sure he's never heard him sound like that in his troll form before. "But you can't tell me you don't see how the wind is blowing. Gunmar's not going to share his new world with the _impure_ —"

"Not with _that_ attitude, he isn't!"

"Gunmar doesn't trust you," Jim says. "And after tonight, the whole world knows he's here. Do you really think he's gonna keep changelings around after he doesn't need to do his dirty work in the shadows?"

She flashes him a warning snarl, and Jim can tell he hit a nerve. 

But the opening is clear, and Strickler presses the opportunity. 

"You really think this is the glorious future Gunmar promised us? All that we went through, that _all_ of us went through—and you're content to live off his scraps, wrangling _goblins_?" A contemptuous huff. "You might lie to Gunmar. Even to yourself. But you were never very good at lying to _me_."

"Don't flatter yourself, old man," she laughs. "You know, I didn't want to believe the reports, but after tonight's little spectacle—it looks like you really _have_ gone crazy. A _human_ Trollhunter? The clue's in the name, _korát_. This can't be the Trollhunter, because he's not a _troll_ —"

Jim almost has to bite back a laugh. 

"Y'know—" He wipes his eye with the back of his hand. "Draal told me the same thing."

This was, of course, probably the worst thing he could have said. She rounds on him in a flash of red-hot blades. 

"And what do _you_ know about Draal?" she sneers. "A tiny little thing like you—a _human_ —"

"I know he was my _friend_ ," Jim says, as evenly as he can, staring down an angry Nomura with only a borrowed knife in his hand. "And so were you. When I was stuck in the Darklands, he came to save me—he saved us _both_."

" _Bushigal._ " But—he can see a chink in her confidence, one that wasn't there a moment ago. "Now I _know_ you're crazy. There's no way you could've been in the Darklands, the bridge hasn't been opened in centuries—" 

"But _we_ did. We opened it. And let me tell you—in my timeline?" Jim squares his shoulders, and tries not to squeeze the knife in his hand too tight. "You didn't have to kill the Trollhunter to do it."


	2. honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the troll stricklander has known many trollhunters in his life. some have tried to kill him; some have never thought to notice him. but they’ve _never_ been one of his students before.
> 
> [au concept: what if jim had been honest when he went to strickler's office after finding the amulet?]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from [ler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ler): "yes, prompts! i would like some of that honesty au, or as I understand, Strickler Believes In The Trollhunter AU which I've been thirsting over for some time now"
> 
> [[original fill](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/189182073512/yes-prompts-i-would-like-some-of-that-honesty)]

In all his long years, the troll Stricklander had never particularly considered himself _fortunate_. Lucky, certainly; particularly well-treated by the Lady's favor, at times. But never, in all his days, would he have anticipated the sight of a human boy offering him the Trollhunter's amulet, laid on his desk like a gift from Argante herself.

He may—slightly—forget to breathe. Just a little. 

"They called themselves 'trolls,'" Jim says. His earlier excitement—barely-contained, effervescent, straining and keen as a hound before the chase—has all but evaporated. Now, he just looks uncertain. "They said this—this thing, it means I'm something called—a 'Trollhunter?'"

He says the words as if this should sound somehow strange, or unbelievable. As if _trolls_ aren't a thing you'd expect in a pleasant SoCal suburb. As if Stricklander hasn't known that amulet since before earning his name. 

He'd heard of Kanjigar's death, of course. Fragwa had come practically screaming into his apartment the day before, just before sunrise, chattering incomprehensibly about _bridges_ and _the tin can_ and _gotta see, gotta watch_. Bular's gloating had been 1.) completely predictable and 2.) absolutely unbearable; all the same, Stricklander hadn't been exactly tearful to hear of the Trollhunter's demise.

But—the amulet can't have picked Jim. It _can't_. Jim's only—doesn't the stupid thing realize it's got the wrong species?

"A _Trollhunter_." Stricklander says the word slowly, carefully, like he's only learning the word for the first time; he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with the fact that amulet chose a human, doesn't know what to do with the fact that the _Trollhunter_ , _apparently_ , is sitting at his desk, but he knows he's got to stall. "Are—are you sure you heard right?"

"It's written around the edge of the amulet," Jim says, almost apologetically. 

Which—ugh. Is definitely magic. In the bright morning light of his office window, the Trollish characters are clear and crisp. Meaning the amulet is definitely the real deal. 

"I—I know it sounds dumb." Jim ducks his head. "Maybe—you know, I've been going through kind of a lot, lately, maybe I'm just—stressed. Maybe…" His voice gets smaller. "Maybe I'm just seeing things—" 

"I believe you, Jim."

The boy's eyes go wide. "Wait, you do?"

"I told you I would, didn't I?" That's exactly the problem. He leans back in his chair, trying to tune out every instinct currently screaming at him to take the amulet, to _contact Bular_ , _you idiot_ , and trying to understand just why—and how—one of his students had come to possess the fucking _Amulet of Merlin_. He wonders—if the boy really is the Trollhunter, how much can he reveal? "Being a historian nets you lots of useful information. You learn to…see what's beyond the veil, at times. There are more things, after all, in heaven and earth…"

"'Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,'" Jim whispers. He shoots him a small, tentative grin, one which—even despite the fact that he's got the Trollhunter, in his _office_ —Stricklander can't help but return.

"Though—I have to admit, Jim, this isn't exactly the usual sort of thing my students want to talk about."

The comment lands lightly enough though that Jim chances a laugh. "I couldn't think where else to go," he says. The hesitation, the uncertainty in his voice makes him sound younger than he looks. "I mean—my mom is cool, it's not that. She's just—busy. And I tried to call Toby, but he was at the orthodontist all morning—"

"It's quite alright." The Trollhunter walked into his _office_. Offered him the amulet. Of course Jim came to him; he thought he was someone he could _trust_. "You said they—these 'trolls,' they weren't human?" 

That's the part of this that makes the least sense. Trollmarket has never had any love for humans; he can't imagine things have changed in the wake of the death of their beloved Trollhunter. Nothing about this adds up. Who would they have sent? Who would have gone?

"This is going to sound crazy," Jim warns. He looks—miserable.

Stricklander raises an eyebrow. "Try me, young Atlas."

"Well, there…there were just two of them. One of them had—I'm pretty sure he had the wrong number of eyes. The other one was just huge." Jim spreads his arms, as far as they will go. The gesture makes him look painfully young. He's supposed to believe this is the _Trollhunter_? "A—a little scary looking, but—I think I was just panicking. They didn't actually seem scary, now that I think back on it."

"Hm. No one I recognize." Blatant lies. He knows exactly who it is: Galadrigal's _insufferable_ little brother, and the ex-general. Unbelievable. Of all the emissaries to introduce the boy to their world—

"Do you—do you think I can trust them?"

The question takes Stricklander off-guard, as much as he's deeply and inexplicably pleased to hear it.


	3. extraterrestrial shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-s3 domestic bliss vs. extraterrestrial shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from @annythecat, on tumblr: "For the prompts: stricklake dealing (or Not Dealing) with all the extraterrestrial nonsense from s2 of 3below?"
> 
> [[original fill](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/189383551797/for-the-prompts-stricklake-dealing-or-not)]

"Barbara, I swear to you." He tries not to quail under her look—he _was_ an ancient changeling assassin, former master of the Janus Order—but it's a close thing. "I have no idea what those things were—but it was _absolutely_ not one of ours."

"You're trying to tell me that _aliens_ are _real_?!"

"In total fairness, my dear, most people would say the same thing about trolls—"

"Oh, you do _not_ get to pull that on me _this_ time, Strickler!" She's balancing little Walt, on her shoulder as they have this conversation—sound asleep, hiccuping softly—and it's actually impressive how terrifying she can make a mild half-whisper. "Weren't you literally a _spy_? Meaning it was your _business_ to _know_ things?"

"In my defense, extraterrestrial life wasn't exactly covered in the orientation!"


	4. mistaken identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [trollhunter!barbara] it always ends in a fight.
> 
> brief mention of (canon) character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from @homosexual-disaster-ziggy, on tumblr: "Trollhunter Barbara, defending her son against a monster that tried to kill him, having no idea that this monster is one she knows all too well? >;3"
> 
> [[original fill](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/189876475947/trollhunter-barbara-defending-her-son-against-a)]

"Jim." She puts herself between him and the figure in her yard, without hesitation. All she can make out in the moonless dark is the yellow gleam of two weird, catlike eyes; it's not a reassuring sight. "Go inside, and call Walt."

Jim, by contrast, just sounds small and frightened behind her. "Mom?"

" _Go inside_. Get the good cast iron pan and head down to the basement. Lock the door." Even to her own ears, her voice is eerily calm. "I'll take care of this."

Somehow—amazingly—Jim actually does as he's told. She tries not to let the thought hurt too much, that it only took almost getting murdered for him to understand her worry.

She's got more pressing matters to deal with at the moment. She's still standing in her back yard, just past the kitchen step, staring down a tall, thin horned figure she can barely see. The amulet is cool and heavy in her pocket, and—Blinky had told her, hadn't he? _Always finish the fight_. The knife in the siding, the one that had just missed Jim's _head_ , means there's definitely a fight to be had. 

But if she's right about what threw that knife, there's only one way this fight will end. 

And as she can feel her pulse slowing—even as she feels a prickle of wariness along her spine—she thinks: she doesn't want more blood on her hands, not tonight. Not if she can help it.

"It can't be you." The changeling's voice is distant, disbelieving under its soft trollish rasp. It's talking like she's not there, except—there's no mistaking how she's being _watched_ , not with those eyes. "Our reports—it was supposed to be the boy—"

"It seems you're getting a lot of bad intel tonight." She can hear the steel creeping back into her voice, but doesn't bother trying to hide it. "Look—I don't know what you want with me. You surprised me, at the dentist. But that's my _son_." 

_This is going to be ugly_ , part of her thinks. Coldly, almost detached. 

"I don't want to fight you," she adds. Her voice is quiet, almost pleading. After—after what happened in the dentist's office, after every half-truth she's managed to pry out of Trollmarket about these things they'll hardly even name, she's still surprised at how truthful it feels. "Not here. But I will if I have to. I know what you are."

"No," it says. Then, the realization creeps over her: she _knows_ that voice. "No, Barbara. I really don't think you do."


	5. conlang #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's motherfuckin cozy time, lads. 
> 
> (set in the vague, near-ish future of _in my sleep i dreamed of waking_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from @annythecat, on tumblr: "Hey! Happy Holidays! If you're still taking promptals, consider: stricklake snuggles, for any verse that goes with that XD"
> 
> [[original fill](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/189909948917/hey-happy-holidays-if-youre-still-taking)]

It's not that he's—ectothermic, now. Not strictly speaking.

"What you're saying is 'irregular endings,' and 'unique linguistic heritage.' And I get that, I do." Barbara's voice, pitched almost convincingly to something _bright_ and _awake_ , is half-muffled from the voluminous cloud of their comforter. She'd hesitated a little, at first; but when she'd finally come around to the eiderdown, he'd been insufferable _._ "But what I'm _hearing_ is: the fifth declension is _garbage_." 

"You're just not used to such heavy inflection," he protests. But he's grinning, as he says it, and she's laughing, and half-sleepy, and _warm_ , and never, _never_ did he ever dare to dream his life would be like this. "Six cases is hardly anything. That's the same amount as Latin—"

"We've already established I only know bad doctor Latin."

"Better than nothing." He'd been a physician once, only briefly—back when it was still called _leechdom_ , and featured actual leeches—but as he reaches up to take hold of her hand, he wonders how many bones he can still name. If they have names in the language he's teaching her. "If you think this is bad, wait 'til you hear standard Trollish."

A flicker of something crosses her eyes, and then—because of _course_ —she looks a little more awake. 

"I've never heard _standard Trollish_ ," she says, in that slow, deliberate way. The way that means _I'm asking indirectly on purpose, because for some reason, I'm interested, and invested in being gentle, even to a worn out treacherous two-timing old thing like you—_

Maybe not...exactly in those words. But he hears it like that, anyway, at least until she's pulling herself a little closer to him, and that train of thought abruptly derails. 

He rallies, just in time, and attempts a recovery. "As I told you, my dear. I've got an accent."

"You've got an accent in English, too, you dork."

"Regardless. You'll pick it up. You'll sound like a changeling, in front of all respectable troll society."

"I am the Trollhunter's _mother_ ," she grumbles. Half tender, half fire, even from the comfort of bed, and _oh_ , he is in love. "I'll sound like whoever I damn well please."

"Only if you master the fifth declension, _áhttar_."

She groans, and kicks him tenderly in the shins, muttering something that sounds like _I'll show_ you _declensions_. He's glad of the cover, honestly, to distract from the thought that someone—that _she_ —would want to sound like _him_.

They stay like that a few more moments. He's certainly not complaining. Then:

" _Walt_."

He knows that tone of voice. But he can't flinch, not now. "Barbara."

"Were you aware. It's almost nine."

"It's the weekend."

"There's no food here."

He hums. "But we're so _comfortable_."

She gives a soft sigh. "I didn't want to have to do this."

"Oh?" 

She rolls onto her side, so she's facing him directly. 

" _En ánats_ ," she says, slowly and carefully. " _En—eit araanai. Esti an..._ _kahve-ci_?"

_I'm hungry. I'm—it's breakfast. Do you want some coffee._

His eyes go wide. He can't stop the smile coming back over his face.

" _Ask me again, my darling_."

"Oh, come on—" She gives him a look, though it's not quite enough to conceal the fondness in her voice. "I _know_ you heard me."

" _I'm afraid you're mistaken_ ," he says, grinning like a fool. " _There's never been a human who spoke our language before—_ "

" _En mathi._ " _I'm learning._ "Even if I've got a horrible teacher. A handsome, horrible, no-good very bad teacher, who's keeping me trapped in bed, on a Sunday, just so he can leech off my precious human warmth—"

"I'm not _trapping_ you!"

"I'm going to _starve_ , Walt. _En ánats_!" She gives him a pitiful face, even as he's laughing into the pillow. "Come on, Walt. Oh, how d'you say it— _viti_?"

 _Please_?

Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought to hear that word, in his language, coming from her.

But. Well. When asked with such tenderness, how can he refuse?

"Tell you what," he says. " _I_ _'ll make you coffee. To show that I'm not just interested in your delightful endothermic qualities._ "

"Tell me that's you giving in." She makes a wistful face. "I definitely heard _kahve_ in there. And something about—humans?"

"Indeed _. Clever darling heart_." He reaches out again, to take her hand. " _But you'll have to give me the instructions._ "

"What."

" _The unused knife dulls quickest._ "

"Oh, _God_. That was an idiom, wasn't it."

But she's almost laughing, as she says it. And—well. Then, she's slipping out of bed, and pulling his hand, and her touch is so gentle, so warm—

"At least let me have English 'til we get downstairs," she's saying. She could ask anything of him, he thinks, and it wouldn't feel like any kind of concession, as long as she held his hand. "You still won't teach me swearing, so I've gotta—surely I've earned some allowances, here."

"Ah, my _dear_ ," he says, as she pulls him out from under the covers. "I am _nothing_ if not chivalrous."


	6. rebecoming #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [rebecoming au] later that evening...what's going on at the hospital?
> 
> ([part two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014420/chapters/55319026).)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from [Meg13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg13): "oooh, prompts! can I get a little more of the Unbecoming AU?"
> 
> [[original fill](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/189988379637/oooh-prompts-can-i-get-a-little-more-of-the)]

So: after everything, the Eternal Night has finally come. For all the time he'd spent worrying (and planning, and facilitating, and _anticipating_ ) so far it's been, probably, the weirdest, stupidest, most terrifying night of his entire life. 

He's in a human hospital, which perhaps isn't entirely unexpected. He's in a human hospital, helping a _human_ Trollhunter evacuate _human_ refugees, which definitely _is_. The fact that _Nomura_ is here—driving their gyre, for that matter—isn't making this any less surreal; the fact that the _human Trollhunter (!)_ is in fact one of his students, James Lake, Jr., 10 am History (Mondays and Wednesdays), is proving fairly difficult to absorb.

He's still not entirely sure why he'd listened to the boy. Jim had been so confident when he'd burst into the office, so cool and collected for the terrible tale he brought with him; he'd fought, better than Stricklander could've ever expected, but only enough so he could keep talking. 

A _human_ Trollhunter. A child's fancy, a fever dream, brought to life before his eyes. If he didn't know better, he'd half suspect Argante's involvement.

"We're running out of space." He pokes his head through the hole they've made in the hospital floor, before pulling himself easily up. The eerie sensation of wearing trollskin in front of so many humans isn't going to get any better, if the rest of the evening has been any indication—he feels almost _naked_ , which, by human standards, he guesses he is—so he tries to ignore it. "As it is now, Nomura can probably take two or three more passengers. Four, uncomfortably. Any more than that..."

"We're just going to have to make it work," Jim says. "Even not counting us, we've still got five more people to move. We've been averaging, what. Fifteen, twenty minutes between here and Trollmarket?"

"If you think you can do any better, you little shit—"

"My point is: we might not have that kind of time." Somehow, even under all the tension and chaos, Jim hasn't lost an ounce of the cool he's shown since their meeting in the school, and for a moment—a very foolish moment—Stricklander can almost believe he was a Trollhunter. (Was. Is. Whatever.) "Gyres are noisy. They're going to hear us, sooner or later, and when they do, they're going to come back and investigate."

"And when they do?" Nomura hops up through the hole in the floor. "You might talk the talk, fleshbag. But you're still just a squishy human child."

"It doesn't matter," Jim says. "These people need our help. I'm not just going to leave them!"

"We've still got at least one trip left to get everybody out—"

"Then let me stay behind." 

Up to this point, the redheaded woman hasn't said much. Stricklander is vaguely aware she's Jim's mother—he might have seen her across a room, once, at a parent-teacher conference or something—but he doesn't think they've ever met.

He's certain, however, of exactly two things.

First: It is _absolutely_ no surprise that this is the Trollhunter's mother. Brave, selfless, unerring and direct as a well-thrown knife. Standing this close to her—to someone so unlike him—is _excruciating_. 

Second: They've never spoken so much as a word to each other, before this. He'd very much like to remedy that.

"I mean it," she says. "You need room on the—on the thing. Right?" She gestures to herself. "Well. I'm one seat. I'll stay."

" _Absolutely not_." Jim looks like he's about to choke. "Mom—look, I know this is hard to understand. But this is absolutely not something to go up against on your own. It's a miracle you made it this long!"

"And you've got a miracle to work getting those passengers out," she says. "One person can—one can hide easier than five. Morrison's arm is broken, and Lenz has a busted ankle. Maybe if I—I don't know, maybe if I get up to the rooftop or something—"

The _roof_. 

An idea occurs to him.

It's not a _good_ idea. But it's—definitely an idea.

"Trollhunter." His voice sounds—too loud, in the uneasy stillness of the room. Too dry, too rough. Too different from his human voice. "There may be—an alternate option. For your mother's escape."

The woman looks at least willing to hear him out, if he's reading her expression right. But Jim just gives him a sharp, acid _look_ , and he scrambles to explain. 

"There's another way to get her out," he says. It's—an _idiotic_ thought. One last advantage, one he'd been saving up since before winning his name—and here he is, ready to spend it on a human woman he's hardly met. "I'd have to go with her. But that would free up two seats in the gyre. Space for the rest of your survivors."

He's dimly aware of a low, bellowing roar from outside, building and building just on the edge of hearing. Which is—probably not a good sign. 

Jim must hear it too. The boy looks to the window, and then back to him.

"What _exactly_ is this plan of yours?"

"Nothing unchivalrous." He shrinks, a little, under the not-so-implied suspicion in the boy's voice, even if he has no idea why he should. "Do you want her out of here, or not?"

"I want to know what you think you're going to do. You and I both know the city's a mess—"

"We're not going to _walk_ , if that's what you're worried about."

"Jim." He tries not to start—he hadn't noticed the woman had drawn so close. "If—if he thinks there's another way..."

" _Mom—_ "

She reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder. "Other people need those seats. And you need to go. This is my choice, kiddo."

Jim's mask slips, just for a moment. He looks absolutely miserable.

"We'll meet you in Trollmarket. Just—keep the light on for us, okay?"


	7. it crimiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes i know it doesn't snow in socal. yes, i wrote about stricklake taking a walk in the snow. it's cool, it's fine.
> 
> brief alcohol mention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from [TwistedMashup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedMashup): "Walter and Barbara celebrating Christmas and/or them trying to figure out what to give each other as a present :D"
> 
> [[original fill](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/190113060367/writing-prompt-3c-stricklake-walter-and)]

"Well." Her voice fogs up in the light of the moon, punctuated by the soft crunch of snow beneath her boots. "It's not quite _The Lion in Winter_. But I _guess_ a romantic moonlit walk with my boyfriend is pretty okay."

"I assure you, my dear, your historical commentary was scintillating." She's got one hand wound through his arm, the other holding their thermos. The scent of mulled wine perfumes the air between them, all cinnamon and citrus and soft, floral honey, and she's so close to him, and so warm, and _oh_ , he's got it bad. "And—we don't need to stay out long. I really had forgotten."

She flashes him a quick little smile, before darting her eyes away. But she tugs his arm a little closer. "This is important to you," she says, like that's an entire explanation. "So it's important to me, too."

"I don't want to give the wrong impression," he insists. "It's not—religious, not the way you think about it."

"But it's—what did you call it. I don't know. Cultural, right?"

"Hm. Something like that."

She's been asking more often recently. Not that he minds, exactly. The feeling of—being scrutinized, of being observed. Except that's not exactly it, is it? It's not the kind of watching he's been vigilant against for as long as he can remember. It's—it's not being watched like a specimen, like a curiosity, not the feel of eyes trickling like cold water down his back, but—like someone she wants to learn from.

It's. A novel sensation. 

But—well. It's a holiday, or something like it. He's trying not to be maudlin.

They keep walking for a bit in the companionable quiet, just enjoying the sounds of the nighttime forest. When the path they're following turns sharply up the hill, he pulls himself up first, and offers her his arm. 

"You holding out alright?" 

"Oh, babe. I'm a regular snow bunny out here." She only stumbles a little, climbing up the embankment, before flashing him a soft smile. "What about you? At least _I've_ got a jacket."

His cloak is actually quite warm, though he suspects she knows he's thinking it. So instead: he simply shrugs. "Compared to my usual solstice plans, this is a considerable improvement."

"Are you really cold?" 

Her voice turns so worried, though, he almost regrets the teasing. That is, until realizing it offers the excuse of pulling her close in to his side.

"With you around? Never."

She tries, and fails, to stifle a laugh.

"Man. That was _smooth_ , Strickler." She leans her cheek into his arm, and he's faintly surprised that he doesn't actually spontaneously combust. "I guess it's really true what they say, huh? Cold hands, warm heart."

"How can anyone be cold around you?"

She almost snorts. "I've got a whole list of exes who could probably answer that question."

"Barbara. Their judgment is _clearly_ defective—"

Then, the path they're following pulls into a clearing. The entire world is lit by the soft, blue light of the moon; the stars overhead gleam, a sea of diamonds scattered on blue velvet.

Barbara gasps. It's a sound so quiet, he only notices by the little cloud of her breath.

"This is—this is _beautiful_ ," she says. 

"Wait until we get to the overlook." 

"You can see so _many_ of them!"

She looks so enchanted: it makes him feel so warm. "Have you never been outside the city at night?"

"Not like _this_!" She dashes ahead, gleeful. "Look, that's—Orion, right? And the bright one, that's his hunting dog—oh." She turns around, a little sheepish. "'Excellent night vision,' right?"

He gives a little half-smile, despite himself. "Elliptical pupils, my dear."

"Do—do trolls—" She fumbles with the words, for a moment. Uncharacteristic as it is, he can't help but grin at the wonder on her face. "You know—Jim told me, sometime recently. They've got a whole different set of stars? I mean—they've got the same ones we do, they just—read them different."

He hums a soft sound of agreement. Trollish astronomy—most of which humans, especially Barbara, would actually probably call _astrology_ —is a venerable, uninspiring subject, at least as it was taught to him. 

But. Ah. 

"Once I—once we're done. With this." He gives her a quick, sideways look. Just gauging—he doesn't want to pressure her, especially since he knows she takes the cold harder than him. "Well—I could show you _our_ constellations, if you like."

Changeling constellations. _His_ constellations. He's still not used to sharing such things with her so freely, to so willingly letting himself be _seen_. 

But she looks—intrigued. _Excited_ , even.

"Well." She shoots him that little grin, and—his heart is so _warm_. "A romantic moonlit walk with my boyfriend, plus _stargazing_? Twist my arm, why don't you."

"I am _nothing_ if not indulgent."


	8. laser tag (gsb #1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> local baby gay bullied ~~gently~~ mercilessly by little brother, film at 11
> 
> this is set in my 90s!highschool!roleswap!au, gaggletack slap bracelets. full-length fic is forthcoming, but in brief: what if barb was the trollhunter…and it was also the nineties? 
> 
> (they are, i swear, coming back from a double-date at laser tag.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from [nico](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nico_Weetch): "For the prompt might I humbly request a house Gaggletack Slap Bracelets? Perhaps a double date of Stricklake and Lenmura or OR!!! omg - laser. tag.!!! O:"
> 
> [[original fill](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/190151663882/for-the-prompt-might-i-humbly-request-a-house)] + [[more of this au (including nico's sweet illustrations!!)](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/tagged/gaggletack-slap-bracelets)]

Nomura rounds on him. "You taught her _nǒnat_?!"

"She was _curious_ ," he says, like that's an explanation. Like it's just some totally normal thing for a human to speak _changeling_ , like he hasn't broken about five _thousand_ years of law just for his stupid, _fleshbag_ crush. "And she's not just any human, Nomura—"

"Yeah, because she's the _Trollhunter_!"

" _You're just sore she beat us_ ," he says, because even in the human world, Stricklander is still the biggest brat in the Darklands. " _You never think humans can do anything. So when you lost, at some normal human game—_ "

" _She's_ not _a normal human_ ," Nomura huffs. " _You just said so._ "

"— _when you_ lost _,_ " he continues, " _to a_ normal _human, without the amulet or_ anything, _you've always got to take your frustrations out on_ someone _. And since it can't be Lenora—"_

"Oh, don't you _dare_."

He matches her eyes, like he's going to try to stare her down. But after a moment, he just looks away.

"It's not the worst thing, you know." He switches back to English, then, like that'll make this any easier to hear. "They're not all as bad as they told us."

"They're _humans_." She wants to believe him, but she knows, from experience, where Stricklander's naiveté will get them. "One of them is the _Trollhunter_. You and I both know what they think of us."

"They _aren't_ ," he insists. "At least—not all of them, anyway. And especially not Lenora, not when it comes to you."

She snorts. "It's a nice thought, _adi_. But you don't know that—"

"Have you _seen_ how she acts around you?"

She's only spent most of the past few weeks thinking about it. The way Lenora laughs. Her skill in recitation. Her infuriating opinions on nineteenth-century drama. (As if _A Doll's House_ can hold a fucking candle to _Gynt_ —!) Her _excellent_ opinions on twentieth-century cinema. The way their hands have touched, or almost touched, exactly sixty-seven times. 

Not that she's counting, or anything.

"It's still not an excuse to get cozy," she says, as much to herself as to him. Then, with more emphasis: " _Humans always act like that around their friends. Especially the girls._ " 

"Oh, Nomura." He looks like he wants to laugh, then, which only makes it worse. "They _definitely_ don't."

The heat that's come over her cheeks is bordering on intolerable. Lenora's hands are so soft, it's not her fault she—she _notices_ things. Collecting intel is her _thing_ , it's what changelings _do_. What they're good at, what they're _made_ for.

 _So if the Lady didn't want her to notice some fleshbag's finer qualities,_ a very, very quiet part of her thinks, _maybe She shouldn't've made her so fucking good at it._

" _Anyway_ ," she says. "It's not important. I'm not—I've got responsibilities, _adi_."

"I was just trying to help." He shrugs, carefully nonchalant. "All I'm saying is, being her tutor makes a good excuse for lots of things. Coming over. _Staying late_."

" _Stricklander_!"


	9. rebecoming #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [rebecoming au] behold! tender apocalyptic monsterfuckery.
> 
> ([part one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014420/chapters/55234915).)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [ler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ler): "Can I please get some of that sweet rebecoming AU (with Strickler, because I can’t handle bad timeline without my green boi)
> 
> Special internet cookies for some Stricklake, awkward “this is NOT The Best Time for THIS” Stricklake"
> 
> [[original fill](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/190204440542/super-bonus-extra-holiday-prompt-fill)]

"I don't think I technically qualify as a 'damsel,'" she says. It's not the weirdest question, probably, that she's ever been asked, but she's also never had a seven foot-tall stone monster lead her through an abandoned hospital before, so she might be missing some context. "But I could probably do a pretty convincing 'distressed,' if that's what you're looking for."

He almost laughs. It's a weirdly normal sound, considering—everything. 

"Well. Not to put you on the spot." He's still gallantly holding her hand as he peers through the gloom, and she's trying steadfastly to ignore how warm her face feels at the touch. "We shouldn't be much longer, if I read those blueprints right, but—ah. There!"

There's a collapsed section of ceiling just past the end of the corridor. She's not—glad, to see it. She knows, or at least can guess, what it means that a hospital looks like this. But they've been looking for roof access for what feels like ages, now, and as tired as she is—after three collapsed stairwells, half a dozen locked doors, and the effort of all the ebullient denial she's been floating on for the past several hours—the thought of a little parkour is almost exciting.

"Do you think this'll work?" 

"Only one way to find out."

Somehow, she still manages to be surprised when he leaps up easily, all coiled stone muscles and cold, inhuman sharpness.

She's been trying not to be—voyeuristic, for lack of a better word, as they've been making their way through the hospital. Even as she's running all sorts of mental calculations and cross-references. (The world record for human jump height is, what, just over five feet? The floor-to-ceiling distance alone is almost twice that.) But she also spent most of their little adventure _painfully_ aware of how handsome he is, this strange maybe-gargoyle maybe-troll maybe-weird-shapeshifting- _something_ that had shown up with her son and saved her floor crew.

It's not—a normal thing to think. Probably. _Definitely_. Also: _categorically_ not the time, Barb. Maybe she's just delirious.

"All right." That train of thought is mercifully derailed by her chaperone's reappearance, cool and mysterious and maybe, somewhere, just as haggard as she feels. "There's an exit to the roof not far from here. Everything looks clear on this side; as long as you're alright with it..."

She swallows, then nods. "Sure. Just—give me a boost."

He kneels down, and offers his hand. But he must mistake her expression for something else, because before she can say anything—there's just a weird, hissing _crackle_ , followed by the briefest flash of light.

And then—which is the part that's _really_ confusing—he's a _person_.

"It's still me," he says, too quickly. She's staring, she realizes, but too late—he flashes her a little smile, so thin it can hardly cover the sudden anxiety on those soft, human features. "It's just—you looked worried. So: me. But, er. Softer."

"You changed," she says, and _boy_ , if it doesn't sound even stupider aloud than it did in her head. "I— _how_?"

"I'm—I'm a changeling." Which explains absolutely nothing, even if he says it softly, kind of quickly, like it should. "Still strong enough to pull you up, don't worry. Which, if you're ready…?"

She has. _So_ many questions. She's absolutely certain some of them— _most_ of them are rude. 

But as she reaches up to take his hand, all she can think is: when she woke up this morning, the biggest problem in her world was waiting for Wanda to get back to her with next month's schedule.

And now—well. If she hadn't _already_ thought he was handsome.

_Focus, Barb!_

"There you are," he says gently, as she pulls herself the rest of the way up through the ceiling. His voice sounds—different, like this. Not better, but—smoother, somehow. He's still taller than her, and this close she can see the echoes, almost, of stone features in flesh. He's still _unfairly_ good-looking, even if she wants nothing more at the moment than to shove _that_ particular realization down and never think about weirdly, _stupidly_ handsome troll monsters ever again. 

"That light over there," he says. Part of her thinks, deliriously, that he might just be blushing, and then, a bigger part of her wonders what exactly he'd have to blush at. "It's coming from outside. We should be able to reach the emergency access from here."

"Thanks," she says, surprising herself with just how much she means it. "I, uh—I really mean it. Even if I still don't know your name."

Oh, that is _definitely_ a blush. All his coolness, all his composure evaporates instantly; he looks like he's just realizing he left the oven on. 

"Who I am—it's not important," he says. "Someone who got the world into this mess."

"My name's Barbara." She does her best to meet his eyes, tired and unexpectedly soft and really, stupidly beautiful. "Barbara Lake. Jim's my son. Which it seems like you already knew."

They stand, staring at each other, for what feels like a very long moment. 

Then:

"Most humans called me Walter." He sounds so—cool, so nonchalant, even while acknowledging the fiction of being human. "But—my real name is Stricklander. Until recently, Lord Seneschal of the armies of Gunmar the Black. Among...other things."

"My son's history teacher, for one."

"Technically, yes." He ducks his head, suddenly all shyness. "I suppose that's why he came to me. Lucky he did."

Hearing him confirm it—it gives her a weird feeling. 

"You can change back," she says, suddenly. Offering it like a gift, like—like part of the gratitude she'll never be able to repay, for—for bringing Jim back to her. "If you want. I don't want to—I don't know. Pressure you, or anything."

He looks at her, almost warily. His eyes— _these_ eyes—are startlingly green, she realizes, even in the gloom.

"Humans aren't generally a—sympathetic audience, to those wearing trollskin." He says it almost casually, like he's explaining an interesting piece of trivia. It takes a careful eye to notice that he's standing very, very still. 

"Look. Stricklander. _Walter_." She lays a hand on his shoulder, without thinking. _In for a penny..._ "After everything that's happened tonight, I don't think I really qualify as 'most humans.'"

When he just gives her a disbelieving look, she feels a flush creep over her cheeks, and crosses her arms. 

"Plus, y'know. That whole—pristine tweed jacket ensemble?" She doesn't mean to tease, but she's too overcome by the thought to pass it by. "Kind of out of place, in the apocalypse, and all."

He actually laughs, then, though there's a bitter undercurrent to it she's not sure she's supposed to notice. Then, there's a lightning-quick flash of that weird, green light, and he's standing before her just like he was—cape, horns, _green._ The whole— _everything._


	10. b-b-b-BOSS FIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [changeling!barbara au] don't worry: it's coop, not pvp. ...this time ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from [TwistedMashup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedMashup): "Changeling Stricklake AU where Barbara is Walter's boss in the Order :D"
> 
> limnatis is both a lake nymph and a genus of leeches. thus i thought it was a good name for changeling!barb. you can check limnatis' sword out [here](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/24953). :)

He's learned a lot, in the time he's known Limnatis. He knows they call her the _Doctor_ ; that she _practiced_ as a doctor, and that the reason she doesn't anymore has less to do with fleshbag prejudices and more to do with one _very_ memorable lecture at the University of Salerno. He knows she's gentler than she wants people to think, just as much as he knows a good part of her nickname rests on the surgical precision she uses to wield the gold-and-pearl yataghan now lying on her desk.

He also knows—commandant of the Order and her first lieutenant or not—they are well and _totally_ fucked. 

"This door isn't going to hold for long." His voice is a little more frayed than it would be normally, but he thinks it's probably excusable, considering. "Do—do we have a plan?"

"Sure! It's called _making do_ ," she hisses, fingers dancing over the keyboard. She'd heard the others calling for Bular just as he did, but if she's as worried as he is, she doesn't show it. "I'm uploading the worm. It's not an instantaneous process, and it'll only send the message once it's done. Remind me again why you're my favorite second-in-command?"

 _Because I'm the only one who knows you've been actively sabotaging the Order for the past sixteen years_ , he thinks. _Because you know what I feel for you, and the only thing you feel back is The Rule, and the knowledge of it only makes me feel more keenly._

_Because I know the human child you call your son is the new Trollhunter._

_Because I am, and always have been, nothing but a fool._

None of which, obviously, is what Limnatis wants to hear. So: he squares his shoulders, and summons a knife. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her smile. "I do appreciate your being here," she says, more gently. "You're—it's a gamble, what we're doing. Don't think I'll forget that."

 _A gamble_. He swallows. That's certainly one way of putting it.

"I suppose it's premature to bargain this into my next performance review."

"That depends. This evaluation isn't over, yet."

He laughs, despite himself. It's a shaky sound, more despairing than he'd have liked. He thinks of—after, if they make it through this. And it's such a stupid, distant thought. But if they do, he thinks—if they do, and she lets him stay—

A low, wordless roar reverberates through the door, jolting him out of the dream. 

He shifts, on reflex. He knows the odds on Bular vs. flesh, and if he might be willing to _gamble_ on Limnatis, he's not an idiot. Even behind six inches of cold-rolled steel.

She darts a glance up from the computer, though her typing doesn't slow. "I need five minutes, Stricklander."

Part of him thinks he should be flattered at the request. At the fact that—that she let her mask slip so clearly, to ask it of him so directly; that he can hear the trust, implicit in the words. That _Limnatis_ _merch Afon_ thinks he could last _five minutes_ against the _son of fucking Gunmar_.

The rest of him thinks: he's absolutely going to die. He's going to die for this stupid, treasonous plan, and his stupid, unrequited _feelings_ , and Bular is going to eat him, and if he's _very_ lucky, it will happen in that order.

He bites his lip. But he only nods. 

There's a boom like the falling of a bell, loud and close enough to stagger him where he stands. The steel door, bent inward at a sickly curve, bears the unmistakable imprint of a huge, Bular-sized fist.

Her face falls. "Fuck."

"You might not get those five minutes."

" _Fuck_ —"

He pulls another knife from his collar. For all the good it's going to do him.

The door pounds again. It's buckling, badly, but—the commandant's office is built like this on purpose, a glorified cage and a glorified murder hole, a built-in precaution against this _exact_ scenario. He can make out Bular's growl of _you have nowhere to run_ , and worse; he grips the knives tighter, and tries to ignore the aching twinge from his shoulder.

Limnatis swears again. He hears her stand up from her desk, rustling through papers, he has no idea what for. When it registers, the weight of her hand on his shoulder is unexpectedly warm.

"The worm's done as much as it can." Her voice sounds—resigned, though he thinks she's trying not to show it. She laughs, a surprisingly brittle sound. "I guess I'll just have to do the rest of the job the old-fashioned way."

He looks at her, stupidly. "You can't be serious."

"Do I strike you as an _unserious_ changeling?"

"Of course not—"

She laughs, bright and loud. "Good."

She shifts, then. In all the years she's been his superior officer, he's never seen it from this close. He's trying not to stare, and pretty sure he's failing, because every time he sees her like this, he thinks the same thing: _this is what humans must feel when looking at the fey._

If she notices, though, she ignores it. Instead, she just walks over beside him, before making a complicated gesture into the air—a gesture he _knows_ , he realizes, though he's only ever read about it. 

"Limnatis," he says. He's vaguely aware of the bellowing from the other side of the door, but—the _portal_ , apparently, that's opened just in front of him suddenly seems more pressing, somehow. "Is that—is that _magic_?"

"Aren't you always saying it's a useful skill? You've got quite the reputation for it, you know—"

"In— _runes_. Cybernetics, simple enchantments, things that can be _learned._ " He glances from the portal, to her, then back again, incredulous. " _That_ 's not the kind of magic you _learn_."

"The Lady gives us lots of gifts, _adi._ " She shrugs, a flicker of impatience rippling through her mane, gold-laced feathers iridescing in the light. "I'm a lot of things, but not stupid enough to question one like this. Or to waste it, before its time."

The rebuke is clear enough, seeing as it's the same thing he'd once told her about his glamour. It still stings, to hear his own words thrown back at him.

"There." She keeps one hand raised, maintaining the portal. "Now: take this."

With the other, she presses a letter into his hands. Which explains...absolutely nothing. He looks at her, nonplussed. 

"What is it?"

"Don't be stupid. It's for you." She grins again, half-sheepish. Her shark-sharp teeth practically shine in the gloom, a perfect match for her eyes, dream-blue in black. "Doctor's orders."

"For—for _me_?"

"Who else is going to give it to Jim?"

 _Jim?!_ "Jim doesn't _trust_ me," he protests, even as a slow, sinking sensation starts building in the back of his mind. "Ever since he got that gaggletack—wait. The message was for _him_?"

"It's not you he doesn't trust," she says gently. "But you need this letter to prove it. And you need time to get this to him."

Which. 

_Wait_.

"You're _not_ ," he says. "Limnatis, I—you _can't_. You can't be serious."

"Didn't we just go over this?" The words are stern, but her voice is playful. Disorientingly so, under the circumstances. "And—anyway, I suppose I can't make it up to Jim if I'm dead. Or to you." She slips him a soft half-smile. "Pretty good incentive to stay alive, if you ask me." 

He opens his mouth, but the words die in his throat. She's not stupid— _gods_ , she's not—but the thought of her using herself as a decoy, against _Bular—_

He swallows, hard. She offers him her hand.

"Stricklander," she says. "After all this time—after as long, as faithfully as you've stood at my side, do you really think so little of me?"

He's dreamt about this moment for ages. He can't remember ever feeling so valiant, or so helpless. 

"Limnatis," he says, soft as a prayer. "They'll kill you."

"Oh, they'll absolutely try," she laughs. "But first? They'll have to _catch_ me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a brief housekeeping note: from here on out all original fills will be posted directly to ao3. (easier to read, and more centrally organized.) thank you to everyone who's read so far; if you'd like direct updates, don't forget to subscribe!


	11. organized knowledge #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [organized knowledge au] barb has a rough night. cell phones, mostly, are to blame.
> 
> i'll link a fuller explanation of this au below, but in brief: across both conversations in this fic, barb's only talking to one person. ;)
> 
> brief alcohol mention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [ler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ler): "Can I just prompt you a scene from “organized knowledge”? I need it with burning passion."
> 
> ler also sent in the original [fake fic summary prompt](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/612760402607177728/fake-fic-organized-knowledge-in-story-and) (tl;dr: trolls and humans live together; barbara and blinky are friends; pseudolus is strickler's alias as blinky's assistant) as well as some delicious [rambling](https://bifacialler.tumblr.com/post/612784821410889728/fake-fic-organized-knowledge-in-story-and)!

She's been looking at Walt's message for—a while, now. She hasn't really been keeping track of the time, seeing as it took a good twenty minutes or so to feel anything past blind, incoherent anger when she saw the notification. But she knows, in the abstract, she still hasn't really absorbed it.

_dear barbara. i know it's been a while. and—frankly, i'm not even sure if you'll read this message—_

It's a long text, long enough she has to scroll a little to see it goes on for a couple of messages. Which, honestly—how _dare_ he. She still hasn't read the whole thing; she keeps tripping up over the first couple words. _I know it's been a while_ —like he didn't leave her heartbroken and aching and without any _fucking_ idea what had happened.

It's not like she hadn't thought about what this would be like. It's just—she'd mainly thought of _getting texted by her ex_ in the same vein she'd thought of, say, a zombie apocalypse: an unlikely possibility, unpleasant to think on, and _completely_ disastrous.

She takes a sip of her beer and stretches out over the rest of her couch. She knows responding would be a stupid decision. She _knows_. She's been down this road twice now; she knows there's no good outcome to it, especially when said ex ghosted you, especially when you'd've given _anything_ , once, to finally know what happened, _especially_ when you've never actually been able to tell anyone how said ghosting left you a mess for _months_.

But she also knows, after earlier, that Pseudolus is never going to be interested. She's pretty sure, at this point, even if it still hurts miserably to think it. The look on his face earlier that afternoon—sitting too close for _just friends_ , too far for his expression not to turn soft and awful and completely transparent—it'd said everything he hadn't needed to. 

So she thinks: well.

Maybe tonight is a night for stupid fucking decisions.

She pulls out her phone, and flips open her messages. Then: she takes a very, _very_ deep breath.

_What do you want, Walter?_

She stares at the words, even as the cursor blinks up at her, half-reproachful. Part of her wants to laugh, because even a blinking text indicator, apparently, knows this is a stupid idea. 

It takes a lot of self-control to keep it just at that. Half of her— _more_ than half of her—wants to cuss him out; to ignore him, to give him a taste of his own bitter medicine. (A very small part of her doesn't know what she wants: for him to answer? For him _not_ to answer? To tell her this was all some big, stupid misunderstanding?) The other half—mostly wishes Pseudolus were here. Because she doesn't have any fucking sense she can also practically imagine the feel of him next to her; how solid he would feel, beside her, how comforting his presence would be.

...Maybe this really was a stupid idea.

She bites her lip. Then, before she can stop herself, she hits _send_ , and turns to focus as hard as she can on her the last of her pretentious craft beer and dumb, muted late-night TV.

A few minutes later, her phone buzzes. Which— _fuck_.

_barbara!_

_i_

_hello. sorry._

_i'd sent these earlier in the afternoon, and i...frankly, i wasn't entirely expecting you to answer._

She frowns. Loudly. He'd almost expected right, and she knows, rationally, that it was a reasonable expectation for him to have—seeing as, y'know, _everything_ —but she's not feeling particularly _rational_ about this. It rankles, that he still presumes to know how she'll respond, even after all these years. And—worse—that he was still almost right.

 _Well._ She doesn't go out of her way to be cruel—even though she wants to, even though she could—but that still doesn't mean she has to be nice. _Here I am._

Then, because it's true, she adds: 

_I seriously considered deleting this. I'm still not sure I shouldn't._

_you deserve an explanation_ , is his answer. Which, obviously.

_I don't need you to tell me that._

A few seconds pass. Then: 

_barbara. i'm sorry._

_i know that what i did, how i ended things—there's no excuse._

_and i know i can't make it up to you._

_but lately, i_

_being out of arcadia has given me a lot of time to think._

_and...you deserve some closure. at least._

Once again: she doesn't need him to tell her that. She thinks of—of lunch, earlier. Of Pseudolus—of a soft, apologetic _my dear_ , of his hand, resting close enough to touch. Of where the _fuck_ Walt thinks she's going to get closure from, over a text message, from a man who slipped out of her life like he was never even there. 

None of it gives her an answer. And there's one thing, more than anything, that she wants to know. So: since she's already heading down this rabbit hole...

_Why the sudden change of heart?_

_You've only had, what. Four years?_

_You LEFT me, Walter. Me and Jim and EVERYONE._

She bites her lip. Hovers her finger over the _send_ button. 

She knows she's being maudlin—but she also never thought she'd have this conversation, so. Might as well take the opportunity, right?

_Did you even care?_

He's quiet for a long time. She can see him typing and retyping—not like that makes this any easier.

Then, finally:

_i can't think of any single thing in my life that's hurt more._

_barbara, i know i wronged you. badly. you have no reason to trust me, after doing so, but believe me, i know._

_but—i wanted you to know. circumstances have changed, recently. and i'm planning to be back in arcadia—_

Nope. Nope. A thousand fucking times _nope_.

She closes the app without thinking, and tosses the phone, face-down, to the other end of the couch. 

She should have known. She should have _known_. And—maybe it's not the smart way to respond to this, burying her face in the couch, wishing it were smooth and warm and living stone. And she knows—she _knows_ —it's definitely not the mature way. 

But to be completely honest? She can't particularly bring herself to care.

* * *

She's not sure how long she spends like that—heartsick, _definitely_ not crying into a pillow and _definitely_ not cursing her stupid fucking gullible _feelings_ —before an idea occurs to her.

It's. Not a good idea. _Emphatically_ not.

Then again, it not like she's had any other kinds of ideas tonight. 

She retrieves her phone with one hand. (The other's still holding too tightly to the pillow, because—frankly—she still feels too fragile to let go.) She pulls up her contacts. Then, hits _dial_.

The voice that answers is—surprisingly, in English. 

"Hello?"

"Hey, P." She's _inordinately_ proud of how steady her voice is, even if she's not sure how she manages it. "I, uh—Pseudolus, it's me. How—how are you?"

" _Barbara_?" He sounds—a little surprised. More than a little, to be honest, which she guesses she should've expected. "I— _eh_ , _kkás_ —"

"Everything's okay!" He sounds—he sounds like everything she's wanted to hear for the past few months, she thinks, because at least in her head it's not like anyone else can hear how corny it sounds. But he hasn't hung up on her, which is a good sign. "I just...I just, uh. Shit. It's—sorry, I didn't realize how late it was—"

"It's—fine." His voice is so _soft_ , almost raspy, like she must have woken him up; the image is so immediate, so _intimate_ , she can't help a tired, heartbroken laugh. "Are you—are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah." She tries to keep her voice from cracking, and so far as she can tell, only mostly fails. "I just...might have done something dumb."

"Something...dumb?" 

_Dumb like only Barb knows how to do_ , she thinks. _Dumb like spending the entire evening texting my ex. Dumb like spending the entire evening wishing you were here._

She can still hear him breathing, on the other side of the line. It's a soft sound, but attentive; it's more reassuring than she wants to admit.

"I—I'm sorry." Her voice only cracks a little, which, _again_ , she's very proud of. She tries to laugh, again, and only mostly fails. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"I was already up," he says, softly. Like there's no possible universe in which he wouldn't have answered.

He _sounds_ a little more awake, which—has the potential to be dangerous, actually. But—she's thinking a little more clearly herself, now, and she darts a glance over to the clock—

"Oh, P." He's _diurnal_ , he'd explained it before; she hadn't even thought about it, just gone straight to calling him. _Great job, Barb!_ "Shit. I wasn't thinking—"

"As I said, my dear. I was already up."

 _My dear_. It's the stupidest thing to get stuck on; he's called her that since they first started getting close. But the sound of it, now—small and close and citrus-sweet—just about sends her over the edge. She's got a type, she's got a _type_ , and it's _always_ the type that ends up with her crying on her bedroom floor at half midnight on Friday nights. She tries not to laugh, _again_ , mostly because she doesn't want to sound _absolutely_ unhinged, but—

After Walt, after _everything_ —the sound of Pseudolus' voice is such a tangible relief, she doesn't quite manage.

"Barbara." Maybe it's just the lateness of the hour, maybe it's just she's already feeling fragile. But the sound of his voice coming through the receiver is surprisingly gentle. "Are you—are you sure everything's alright?"

She laughs again, despite herself.

"I think...I think I just needed to hear a friendly voice."


	12. peace offering (gsb #2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [gaggletack slap bracelets] "i was never a theater kid but i _was_ gay and i _did_ cry a lot about phantom of the opera in high school": the prompt 
> 
> set—a month or two after '[laser tag](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014420/chapters/55318666).' once again, i swear: a musical _is_ involved. (i have been informed that this may be "angst?")
> 
> (and if you're wondering "[who the hell is nightshade](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/612408024966037504/unsolicited-basis-less-headcanon)?")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [Feather_Dancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feather_Dancer): "If I may slide "Broadway/Musical" for the prompt list!"

This is as much a peace offering as anything else, to be honest. In more ways than she wants to admit. Because for as irritating as Nightshade can be—the worst of his qualities, without question, is his obnoxious tendency for being occasionally _right_.

She shivers, despite the warmth of the night. She still can't help thinking of him in that name, even now. They've been topside for almost eight years, and he'd won his name nearly three years back, but—she's still pretty sure what she feels for him is close to what humans think elder siblings should feel. He's smug, and a brat, and often _irritating as fuck_ —but he's been with her through thick and thin.

Not to mention—he had been _distressingly_ earnest, once she'd gotten stupid enough to let her feelings slip.

 _They're not all as bad as they told us_. His eyes were so wide, so trusting. _Especially not Lenora, not when it comes to you_.

 _It's a nice thought,_ she'd said, at the time _._ And it is. It still is.

She knows Nightshade thinks she's cold. Not by human standards— _yet_ , thank the _Lady_ —but just in the normal way; that she doesn't go much for—emotions, for connections, even as part of her cover. And on the one hand: he's absolutely right. Nightshade talks a big game—knives and stealth and the _one_ advantage, divulged to her in secret, the one trick of his she'll never reveal—but he's always been _painfully_ transparent, even in the Darklands. He's _sentimental_.

(He is. He _absolutely_ is, though he still tries to deny it. She'll let the pictures she took before leaving speak for themselves. Nothing serious, nothing that risks exposing them either to humans or Kodanth; but she couldn't resist just a few brief candids with their little Polaroid, before slipping out through the window. _Solán adját Vaziliské_ , the changeling _Stricklander_ , falling asleep in trollskin and a garish, oversized human sweatshirt on the Trollhunter's shoulder while studying for some stupid, _human_ exams. The sight had been—oddly painful, even as she'd known it was also _supreme_ blackmail material.)

But for all she complains about _fraternization_ , she has to admit: she doesn't have nearly the experience he does with navigating human emotions. And being around Lenora—it makes her want to learn.

Which is why she's sneaking out at three in the morning with a pair of tickets she'd acquired at a frankly extortionary price (third row, center orchestra).

It's not quite...an exact articulation of her feelings. She's still not quite sure what to think of musicals (especially since _Verdi_ already _exists_ ), though at least this one is based on a book. And—she knows they both like theater, if Lenora's more— _excitable_ , about it. She's fairly certain, without boasting, that Lenora will at least be amenable.

This won't make what she has to do any easier. But just as much as she knows what she feels for Lenora—knowledge fought for, and won hard—she _knows_ she has to do this.

It still won't be easy to leave. If she could just _explain_ —but even then, Lenora isn't the Trollhunter; there's only so much her glancing looks and bright, glittering laughter can bear. And whatever—whatever Lenora sees in her, it won't survive the reveal she's not human. She might be soft where Nightshade is concerned, but she doesn't share his naiveté, not any more.

Thus: the tickets. She doesn't care that much for Andrew Lloyd Webber, but she cares about Lenora, so she's prepared to make sacrifices. She'll even bring her best coat—useless in California, but plenty of pockets for smuggling in snacks.

It's not much—it won't ever be enough—but she hopes it'll at least soften the blow.

A peace offering. And an apology, in advance.


	13. rebecoming #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [rebecoming au] this isn't QUITE as angsty as it could've been (what with, y'know, the apocalypse happening and all) but uh. the apocalypse is still definitely happening. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [Meg13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg13): "more Unbecoming AU? please? i love it so much"

She's still not settled, exactly. She keeps checking her phone, just out of habit, before remembering that it's _the apocalypse_ , so—she's been keeping it in her pocket, just to have that familiar weight nearby. Seeing the battery slowly dwindle is driving her a _little_ bit insane. After their escape from the hospital—after _how_ they escaped—she knows she's got to keep that normalcy up as things move on.

At least Jim is safe. It's a selfish thought—one she doesn't really want to examine too closely, not when she _knows_ what other people have lost—but it's another small comfort she doesn't quite feel ready to let go of.

She wonders how Jim's doing. The last time she saw him, he was going off with a little blue troll man, yelling about something called a _soothscryer_ and an _un-car_ and—more that she didn't manage to catch. She's still trying to—to _process_ , frankly, the thought that her son is _magic_ , that he has some sort of connection to a secret underground world. That he's off with giant rock monsters trying to figure out how to stop the _apocalypse_.

And—she wonders how Stricklander is doing, too. She's trying not to think about—about the sight of most of Arcadia burning, about her face pressed against his neck. About _crash-landing_ , all her weight falling onto him, about the strong, safe feel of his arms around her.

It's. A lot to take in. She's still not _entirely_ sure this is real, and not some crazy, awful dream. So when she sees a now-familiar horned head pop through the door—

Her heart leaps, despite herself.

"Barbara!" He sounds somehow relieved, to see her, and underneath everything else, it's another soft, small thing she doesn't exactly want to let go. "Are you—are you holding up?"

Both of them seem to recognize it's a ridiculous question. It still doesn't stop her heart doing a funny little wobble, regardless.

"As best I can, I guess." _Easier for the sight of a friendly face_ , she doesn't add—mostly because she's exhausted, though also, partly, out of shyness. "But I—is my floor team, are they—?"

"Being attended to," he says. "It's not quite _human_ medicine, but—believe me, it works."

 _They're alright_. It's at least one weight off her shoulders. There are—more humans than she'd expected, down here, though part of her thinks darkly it's still not nearly the whole town. But the thought that her team made it, safely—it's a reprieve she hadn't thought to hope for.

Her relief must be apparent, because his features relax into something soft—softer than she expects, given, well. Everything. He produces a bag of chips from beneath his cloak, disconcertingly identified as _new! limited edition! clamato flavor_ , and offers it to her.

Even in the apocalypse, gratitude for clamato-flavored potato chips is a weird feeling. But it's one, despite everything, she doesn't want to turn away.

"Trolls don't typically stock much in the way of human food," he explains. "At least not that humans would want to eat. But...I thought you might be hungry. This was the best I could find on short notice."

Barbara takes the bag, gratefully. The chips smell— _weird_ , as she opens it, but as she does she realizes she's suddenly starving. The flavor isn't good, exactly—a strange, too-salty umami that definitely doesn't taste like the time James had made her try whatever the hell a "Bloody Caesar" was—but, for the moment, they might as well be manna from heaven.

"I wasn't entirely sure I'd find you up here, you know." He sits lightly across from her, and shoots her a thoughtful look—all sharp stone features and gold, careful cat-eyes. "Things are still fairly hectic, down below."

"It sounds like it." She'd been escorted to this place—an office? a library?—by a giant, soft-spoken troll who'd proceeded to promptly and unambiguously disappear, answering exactly none of her questions, and again she feels the stinging press of the need to _do_. "I heard Nomura yelling at—at that goat guy, earlier, and—"

His eyes go a little wide. "You _heard_ her?"

"Well, I couldn't exactly understand her. But the volume seemed to make things pretty clear."

"Nomura's been having...a stressful evening."

"She did _start_ in English," she reminds him, half-sheepish. "Back when—when we landed."

"Mm. I bet she sounded furious then, too."

"What was she saying?"

He snorts, though he doesn't quite meet her eyes. "Mostly? 'The next time I try to kill you, I won't miss.'"

She freezes, a chip halfway to her mouth. She must be making a face, because suddenly—her inventory of _handsome rock monster expressions_ is still fairly limited, but oh, that's _definitely_ a blush.

"Nomura isn't—her anger has some justification." He tilts his head, self-consciously, to look out the window. "We—I was something like a mentor, to her. When we were younger. And she thinks I—intentionally deceived her."

"About…flying?"

He looks away, surprisingly shy.

"About an advantage. And an uncommon one." His eyes dart over to her, a meaningful look. "Best concealed, until the opportune moment."

The words sound like recitation. Meaning—it must be a bigger admission than it sounds. The realization—the fact that he'd _revealed_ such an advantage, to her, to save someone he'd known for all of maybe an hour—gives her an odd feeling.

She's about to ask what she's sure is a very stupid question when the troll who'd brought her here leans through the doorframe. Staid though he'd been, he hadn't been unpleasant; but she doesn't miss the way Stricklander _freezes_.

"We're ready," the troll says. As if that explains _anything_.

"'Ready?'" She can't help the quiver in her voice. "Ready for what?"

"Consultation. You coming?" He looks over to Stricklander. "Vendel says you, too."

Still as he is, Barbara can't miss the little flicker of eyeshine. "And what could _dosh_ Vendel want with a changeling?"

The troll, though, only shrugs. "Not Vendel. _Soothscryer_."


	14. lingering kiss (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ **nsfw** ] light bondage · gentle dom barb · praise kink · definitely smutty but not (?) explicit · what universe is this in. what am i doing here. what is going ON · they're so dumb + romo send HELP

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from @annythecat, on tumblr: "Hi! How about 'lingering kiss' for a stricklake prompt? :)"
> 
> this fill was beta'd by the lovely [nico](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nico_Weetch) and miles! (this is the first smutty thing i've written in about ten years, and i was...very nervous.) nico and miles: may you both find $50 on the sidewalk.

He is—incredibly handsome, like this. Not that she doesn't think he is anyways, but—the sight of him, like this, laid out and vulnerable and _trusting_ beneath her, it's a gift, a privilege she's absolutely cognizant of. It's a sight so rare, so precious—she can't help but want to savor it.

"Hey," she murmurs. "Walt, sweetheart. You alright?"

He nods, into the crook of his arm. His hands are—otherwise occupied (read: tied to the headboard), but—for all the concentration is plain on his features, his breathing is still steady and light. He's been so patient, so _good_ ; her heart feels like it's going to burst.

She shoots him a quick, lopsided smile. "You're doing great, y'know."

"I'm glad you think so."

"You _are_. Is it too much?"

"My dear, isn't that rather the point?"

"The _point_ is to make you feel _good_."

He laughs, a soft, breathless sound. "Thus answering your question."

Which, on the one hand: isn't exactly the most helpful feedback. She knows he's got—a _thing_ , about giving her straight answers, sometimes. But when he'd actually _asked_ for this, as directly as he could, she'd known: pulling this off would require particular attention. They've been building up to this for a while, now—a few months of working through patience and openness and vulnerability and _trust_ —and the confirmation that it's working, however indirect, that all their hard work is finally paying off, is _electrically_ pleasing.

But on the other: what a _smartass_.

She cants her hips, just so, and is rewarded by— _noises_. Her grin goes wider.

"Need I remind you, Walt. This is a _team_ effort."

"Oh? I hadn't noticed." He opens an eye to look at her, playful and nervous and bratty, though he doesn't turn his head away from his arm. "Seems like there's only one of us tied up, after all, and only _one_ of us with—"

" _Hey_." She tries to summon up her best _trust me, I'm a doctor_ voice, though the effect must be tempered some by how absolutely positively _stupid, besotted in-love_ she feels. "You know. All this _sass_ is making it _awfully_ difficult to tie you up and tell you you're good."

That sends a delightful shock of pink all across the bridge of his face. She tries, not very successfully, to stifle another dopey grin.

"Still," she admits. "You do make my part pretty easy, all things considered."

" _All things considered—_ " He tries to turn himself to face her, before reaching the end of his range of movement. The sudden stop draws a pleasant little whimper from him, before he takes a deep breath, and tries to re-right himself, with as much dignity as he can muster. "Need I remind you. You're _hardly_ impartial."

"Well." She shifts her weight again—more tamely, this time, back onto his thighs—and lets her hands come to rest, just lightly, against his chest. "Only because you give me so many good ideas."

He only hums again. She can practically hear what he must be thinking: _you and your good ideas_ , the words half-imagined, half-memory. They bring a real smile to her face, all the same.

But—well. Since her imagination, evidently, has such high expectations...

"The _point_ is," she says. "We've got—options, in this. Options that—I am willing to explore with you. If you know what I mean."

"...Options."

And—she loves him. She _really_ does. But she's been courting this particular thought for a while, now. (Especially since—since he'd seemed to so enjoy it, the last couple times they'd fooled around.) And sometimes, for all his keen skill in observation, he's _very_ intent on not seeing what's right in front of his face.

She leans up, to whisper into his ear.

A beat passes. The soft, steady rhythm of his breath—not slow, but not fast, not yet—the gentle rise and fall of his chest under her hands, doesn't waver. But she can _feel_ his heartbeat jump.

"Not—not if you don't want to," she says quickly. "It's not—you know there's always plenty else we could do—"

"It's not that—that I wouldn't want to." She sees his Adam's apple bob, a hazy flick of light in the gloom. She realizes, for what feels like the first time, how attractive his hair is, mussed like this. "It's only—"

She can count on one hand, probably, the times she's seen him this nervous. It'd be almost endearing, if she wasn't secretly a little worried.

She reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of his face. "Would it still—would it still be okay?"

" _You_ should be fine," he laughs. His voice is tense and shaky, belying the warmth of the sound. "If our—if past experiments are any indication."

"I mean would it be okay for _you_ , you dork."

"There's not quite a one-to-one correspondence." He looks away, bashfully, before his eyes flick back to her. "As you well know."

She definitely does, because the memory of said _past experiments_ is a thing of beauty, she shall treasure it always.

"And _you_ should know that's no obstacle."

The blush goes deeper.

"With—what we've done before, with _hands_ ," he stammers, "that's one thing. But what _you're_ suggesting—you're used to certain configurations, Barbara, which I can indulge _most_ of the time—"

"You think I wouldn't _want_ to?" Then, an idea occurs to her, a cold, sharp wave of worry. "Unless—unless _you_ wouldn't. In which case—"

He blushes, flush and rosy as a peach.

" _Not_ wanting it," he says, in a small, careful voice, "is the _opposite_ of the problem."

The admission sounds—hard-won. Fragile. Like it's been extracted only at great cost.

"You know I'd do anything you want," she murmurs. She's— _fairly_ sure she's never felt so in love. "But first, you have to tell me _what_ you want."

He looks up to her. Swallows.

"It's not easy." He says it slowly, softly, as if offering an excuse; as if he's already expecting it to be rejected. "Asking— _this_."

Which. Ah. Certainly explains some things.

(A small, fierce, delirious part of her thinks: she's going to make him feel so good he'll never hesitate to ask _again_.)

But—instead, she just leans in close, and brushes her hand against his cheek.

"I know." Because: she does. She _does_. And she knows, too—that she _can't_ know what this feels like for him, for someone who'd spent so long, so alone, observing human connections like a thief peering through a window; who'd been trained for so long, with such discipline, not to want. "But giving it to you, once you ask? Easiest thing in the world."

His eyes go—very wide. He breathes out, then in. Then, his eyes flash gold, and he turns his head, just slightly, a whispered _please_ pressed against her palm—

And— _oh_ yeah. Past-Barb _absolutely_ deserves a reward for this idea.

"All right, then," she says softly. "Go on. Change for me?"

He swallows again. Then nods, _achingly_ wanting and intent.

Then, there's the little zap of static, and—he's different.

She can tell she moves, straddled over him as she is. Not by much; he's tall and skinny, no matter what shape he's in. He's still solid and heavy beneath her, still reassuringly present to the touch. But when the angle of the room changes, just slightly, and the skin beneath her touch turns cool, and stone-smooth—

He looks up to her and blinks. He's clearly self-conscious, even under his still-steady breathing; his pupils are dilated, more than normal, for the low light. (Though—she suspects she can only tell because of the _significant_ amount of time she's spent staring dreamily at his face.) The sheen over his cheeks gleams like aventurescence in the low light, little flecks of gold dusted across his skin.

She knows he's—shy, like this.

But—she wants him _not_ to be. Not with her. Not like this.

" _Hello_ , handsome."

He swallows, again. But he returns the smile, this time, and when she can just discern a hint of giddy anticipation, under the nerves—

She's so overwhelmed with pride and _want_ and _love_ —delayed gratification or no, she can't help leaning in to reward him with a soft, lingering kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "ah, but tascheter! what do they get up to afterwards?" _well_ , gentle reader...


End file.
